Catharsis
by Freckles04
Summary: Bryn Cousland and would-be king Alistair struggle to to figure out what it means to be in love when the whole of Ferelden is depending on them. Prequel to Repercussions.
1. A Rare and Wonderful Thing

_A/N: The characters and world of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer my deepest thanks to that company for encouraging community creations._

---

**A Rare and Wonderful Thing**

Funny how the sky could be so blue and the sun so bright when the world was on the brink of disaster. Darkspawn poured from the south like water over a cliff, the entire country seemed about to shatter from the threat of civil war, and still the sun's golden rays lit the world like a promise from the Maker.

Bryn's steps slowed as she admired the fluffy clouds billowing overhead, and she was reminded of a particular childhood summer in Highever. Rebellion had spurred her to abandon her studies more than once in favor of adventuring outside of the castle or watching Fergus train at swordplay. She'd never forget the sinking feeling in her stomach as she'd been called into her father's study after a week of absences. She'd been so certain he was going to lecture her on duty, on the importance of learning her place as a noblewoman and a lady, but instead he'd smiled and given her leave to pursue training with Fergus.

Maker, she missed him.

She waited for the pain to hit, the guilt, and it did; but it had dulled in comparison to the horrendous, mind-twisting numbness that she'd experienced as she and Duncan fled her childhood home. She supposed that meant she was healing.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

"Hm?" Bryn looked at her travelling companion, a quick grin flashing across her lips. "Oh, nothing important."

"We can stop and cloud-gaze for awhile, if you prefer." Alistair's eyes twinkled mischievously. His suit of plate armor rasped as he shifted his shoulders. "I wouldn't mind delaying our arrival at Redcliffe. Really."

"No, we should press on. We need to tell the Arl that the allies are gathered, and I'd rather not be too far behind our companions when they arrive in Denerim. Maker only knows what trouble they'll get into without us." Bryn took a few more steps before she realized her fellow Grey Warden wasn't at her side. She turned, frowning. "Alistair?"

"I, uh...look." He ran a gauntleted hand through his short, reddish hair, making it stand up even more raggedly in the front. "It's just...we're not often completely alone, and I--"

Bryn smiled at him crookedly, one brow raised. "Don't try to sell me _that_, Alistair. You just don't want to hear anything more about becoming King."

"No, I--" He blew out a breath. "Okay, yes. Fine. That's part of it. Oh, and thank you very much for tying my stomach into knots. Again."

She chuckled and walked back along the path until she stood in front of him. He didn't quite tower over her, but his bulky armor always made her feel tiny. She laid a gloved hand on his arm. "You will be a magnificent king."

"You must be travelling with a different Alistair, because this one will be no such thing." He gave her a rueful smile and shook his head. "I can't even lead a band of misfits to camp without getting lost and falling into a pond. How in the Maker's name am I going to lead a country?"

He truly didn't see it, did he? No--he'd embraced the version of himself that he'd adopted after Ostagar. Afraid to take command, somewhat weak, quick to hide his true feelings behind a witty comment or retort. But he didn't fool her. She'd seen him in the Wilds, when he'd taken command after Jory had been all but ready to race back to the King's camp even before they'd encountered the first band of darkspawn. The death of the Wardens--the death of Duncan--had broken him, much like the death of her family had broken her. They were so similar, the two of them, and yet so different. She'd fallen back on memories of love and happy times and warm thoughts to get her through the grief. What memories had there been for Alistair to buoy himself with after Ostagar? She'd gotten the impression that his time with the Wardens had been the happiest of his life, and it had been ripped away too soon.

She laid her hand on his cheek before she could think better of it and looked deeply into his eyes. "You are not alone, Alistair."

Warmth flared in his hazel gaze and she tore her eyes and hand away. Heat crept up her neck, into her cheeks, and she took a step back, clearing her throat. "Right. Well. Don't want to keep the Arl waiting."

He caught her hand in his before she could continue the march toward Redcliffe. "Bryn, wait."

She stopped and turned back to him, sure that her face was afire now with embarrassment. It comforted her somewhat to see his cheeks just as rosy. Maker, what a pair they were. Old enough to be married off, yet still innocent--yes, well, not totally innocent. Bryn knew where babies came from, she knew the mechanics behind the thing--how could she not, living with an older brother--but as for the actual act...

_Let's stop that sequence of thoughts right there, shall we?_

"I've been waiting for just the right time..." His voice trailed off, and he fumbled in his belt pouch for a moment. "Here. Do you know what this is?"

She looked down at the mass of petals and frowned. She knew what it looked like, but if he was asking her... "Is this some kind of a trick?"

"Yes, that's it. I'm trying to fool you." His lips stretched in a wide smile, a bit of relief washing over his face as he was able to retreat behind humor. "I almost had you, didn't I?"

She opened her mouth for a quick comeback, but her wit had abandoned her. "It's a rose?"

His smile fell, replaced by...something else. "I picked it in Lothering. I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it...so I've had it ever since."

Ever since Lothering? That was...Maker, a lifetime ago. But its petals were as soft and red as if he'd just picked it. Bryn's breath caught in her throat. Leliana had spoken of the rose that had bloomed on the dead bush in the Chantry's gardens...

"Alistair," she whispered.

"I thought I might give it to you." An uncertain smile flickered on his lips, then died. "In a lot of ways, it reminds me of you."

"I--" Words, normally her truest, most reliable companion, failed her. "I don't know what to say."

Something dashed across his expression, and he shrugged. "I guess it's a bit silly. I was just thinking that...here I've been, doing all of this complaining, and you haven't had a good time of it yourself. Since Ostagar..." He cleared his throat. "It hasn't been easy for either of us, and yet you've shouldered so much, without a single complaint. I don't know how you do it," he admitted softly. "You're so much stronger than I could ever be. If it had been Duncan at the temple..."

Bryn closed her eyes, the memory of her father's ghost, or the spirit that had looked like him, or the memory of him--whatever the vision had been--tugging at her heart. Strangely, it didn't bring pain, just a sense of...purpose.

_You have such a long road ahead of you, my girl, and you must be prepared._

"I just--" Alistair looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "I just wanted to tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are, to find amidst all this...darkness."

She just stared at him, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. Her mouth opened, then closed, her mind as blank as a hurlock's eyes. She'd been on the receiving end of compliments before, mostly light-hearted comments about her beauty, paid with as little notice as one might mention the weather. Never sincere, never heartfelt--until now. And for _him_ to say such things...Alistair, who stammered over thoughts of wooing someone...

Maker, when had she gone and fallen in love with him?

"Please say something." He kept his tone light but worry gleamed in his hazel eyes.

"Thank you?" Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes and lowered her head before he could see the tears glimmering. "I mean...thank you, Alistair. That is...a lovely thought."

When she dared look up at him again, his smile was as radiant as the sun overhead. "I'm glad you like it. Now...if we could just get past this awkward, embarrassing stage, and move on to the steamy bits, I'd appreciate it."

"What?" A startled laugh burst past Bryn's lips. "Now? On the road?"

"No!" Alistair waved his hands in front of him. "Maker's breath. That's not what I meant! Oh, where's a nice crevice to swallow you whole when you need one?"

Giving in to impulse, Bryn pushed onto her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. "You're so cute when you're flustered."

"Cute, is it?" His eyes seemed to almost glow as she pulled back. "I suppose there are worse things to be called."

"I--" The words she shouldn't say trembled on her tongue. "We'd better go."

His gaze darkened. "Right. Duty, and all that." He sighed and started walking again. "Tell me again why we can't just run away to Orlais?"

"Blight," she said, falling into step with him. "Darkspawn. Archdemon."

"Oh, right, I'd--"

"King."

He groaned. "You had to throw that in there, didn't you?"

"Like I said..." She grinned. "You're cute when you're flustered."


	2. Maybe This is Too Soon

**Maybe This is Too Soon**

His emotions were too close to the surface. Alistair knew that, but he couldn't seem to pull back from them and look at the situation objectively. It had been all he could do not to rush Loghain when the regent had appeared, unannounced, at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. His fingers had itched to grasp his sword and thrust it under the bastard's chin. He'd actually started reaching for his weapon when Bryn's hand had stayed his. Then to hear Loghain talk down to Bryn, to pull out the Blight as the reason Arl Eamon should back away from calling the Landsmeet, when all this time _he_ had been the one ignoring the threat posed by the darkspawn...

Well. It was a wonder Alistair's head hadn't exploded from the stress.

He'd half expected Howe's throat to sprout a dagger when his new title of Teyrn of Highever had been revealed, but Bryn had been...blank. Collected. Calm in the presence of her family's murderer. Once more he was reminded of the strength she possessed.

Maker. Maybe they should put _her_ forth as potential ruler instead of him. In many ways, it made much more sense. She was a noble, not only in name but in countenance and manner. She'd been trained to be at court: how to act, what to say, how to make decisions. He'd had none of that. Despite her reassurances, he knew that he was going to be a terrible king.

He was tempted to suggest it to Eamon just to see the Arl's jaw drop in surprise. It would almost be worth the disappointed looks it would earn him.

Bryn had been quiet, withdrawn, since the encounter with Loghain and his entourage. She'd retreated to the library with barely a word to anyone, which wasn't like her. Alistair hesitated at the doorway as he spotted her in front of the fire. She held herself rigidly, her back stiff and straight, her arms crossed over her chest. Her drakeskin armor fit her like a second skin, molding to her curves...

And now was _not_ the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He cleared his throat and she turned, her eyes shadowed. "Eamon would like to see us," he said.

She nodded and he felt her mask of control slip back into place. Was that a trick born-and-bred nobles learned? She walked up to him and stared to move past, but he laid a hand on her arm to stop her. "Are you all right?"

She looked up at him and he saw the truth in the muddied green of her eyes. She was not all right, not even close, but she'd never tell anyone that. He'd put in her the position of leader, and she'd accepted it, but he'd never meant for her to shoulder the burden alone. "Bryn, I--"

"Let's go see what Eamon wants," she said, and squeezed through the doorway.

He wanted to call her back, to tell her...Maker, he didn't know what, but there had to be something he could say that would restore the light to her eyes.

Instead, he followed.

Eamon was waiting for them in his study, along with a dark-haired elf. Alistair frowned, a sense of foreboding tingling through him. His frown only grew as the elf--Erlina--told Bryn that Queen Anora was being held against her will at Howe's estate. Everything in him screamed that it was a trap, a setup by Loghain to get rid of them, but he couldn't argue with Eamon's logic that they could be blamed for Anora's death just as easily if they weren't there. At least by going to see her, despite the danger, they might have a chance to save her and gain her support.

"We'll go," Bryn decided.

Erlina bowed. "Thank you, my lady. I will be waiting for you at Teyrn Howe's estate."

Alistair didn't miss the tightening of Bryn's shoulders at the casual use of Howe's title. His arms ached to hold her, to soothe away the tension, but he kept his distance. He wasn't sure if she'd welcome the contact; she seemed brittle, somehow, and he worried that his touch might shatter her instead of strengthen her.

"I'm glad you decided to help," Arl Eamon said as Erlina exited the room. "If we can get Loghain's own daughter on our side..."

Alistair rolled his shoulders, the weight of his armor a comforting reminder of his true place in the world. "All right, then," he said. "Let's go and get this over with."

"I'll take Oghren, Wynne and Zevran," Bryn announced to no one in particular, and headed for the door.

"Wait." Alistair frowned. "What?"

Bryn paused. "If it's a trap..." She shook her head. "One of us needs to stay free of it."

"No. You're not doing this without me."

"And you're the future king," she continued, heedless of his protest. "You shouldn't be involved."

"I shouldn't be involved?" His frown deepened. "Are you hearing yourself?"

"I've made my decision." She turned and walked out of the room.

Alistair rushed after her and yanked her to a halt just outside of the study. "I don't want you doing this alone. You shouldn't have to face Howe by yourself."

"I won't be alone. I'll have Wynne, and Zevran, and--"

"Damn it, you know what I mean." He put his hands on her shoulders. "We're partners, remember? In this together? I've got your back and all that?"

She placed her hands over his, then deliberately lifted them from her shoulders. "I don't want you there," she breathed. Something flared in her eyes, something he'd never seen before.

Murder.

"Bryn--"

"Please." Her voice trembled. Not enough that anyone who didn't know her would hear it, but he did. "Just let me go."

Let her go? No. Never.

For once in his life, he didn't think. He didn't worry about where they were, or who was watching, or if it was right or not, or too soon, or not soon enough. He just pulled her into his arms and slanted his mouth over hers.

And...it _was_ right. Maker, it was perfect.

Her lips softened under his and she sighed, pressing against him. He had a second to curse the armor that separated them--he longed to feel her lithe body pressing against his--before her tongue touched his lips and thought fled. He'd never really kissed anyone before. He hadn't known it could be like...like this. Heady and wonderful and confusing and awe-inspiring, all at once. His ears buzzed. Her warm scent--made up of equal parts of leather, the oil with which she cleaned her blades, and the sweet soap she insisted on using--surrounded him like a nimbus.

He wanted her. More than anything in his life. More than escaping the Chantry, more than being a Grey Warden, more than meeting his sister. He wanted Bryn.

Forever.

The realization made him pull back. When she opened her eyes, they seemed clearer, just a little.

"Go, then," he said softly. He traced the curve of her cheek with one gauntleted hand, brushing aside a stray strand of dark hair. "But come back to me."

She bit her lip, nodded, and then she was gone.


	3. A Terrible Thing

**A Terrible Thing**

"Have at me." The Qunari's voice was deep, gravelly, and utterly emotionless.

Alistair envied him, sometimes. "What? No invitation to dinner? No small talk?"

"Was that an attempt at humor?" Sten arched a white brow. "I did not recognize it."

"Oh. Ouch." Alistair's grin was tight as he circled, his shield and blade at the ready. "You wound me, Sten."

"Not yet," the Qunari growled. And struck.

Alistair brought his shield up to meet the enormous sword crashing down at him and fell into the familiar dance of thrust, parry, block. It kept his mind clear, much like the daily meditations he used to manage his templar abilities. It kept him from thinking.

About Bryn. About the team entering Howe's estate.

Was she all right? Not just physically, but mentally? Emotionally? He should have insisted he go with her, if only to give her a shoulder to lean on, after--

Sten's sword deflected off Alistair's shield and cracked into his helm. In short order he found himself flat on his back, staring at the blue sky arching above the Arl's courtyard. The Qunari moved into his field of vision, the white braids of his hair blending into the reedy clouds.

"Your mind was not on the battle," he stated. "You are sloppy when you are distracted. You cannot allow this. It is not the way of a true warrior." His harsh, violet eyes softened. "Kadan will be all right. You must trust her." He reached down a tree-trunk–sized arm to hoist Alistair back to his feet.

"I do trust her," he said. "It's not about trust, it's about--"

What? Love? Was that what this odd twisted-up feeling was? He'd thought love was supposed to be rainbows and butterflies and beautiful, sun-filled days...and, Maker, where in Thedas had he gotten those ideas? Too many childhood tales, he supposed. He'd never known love. Affection, maybe, from Eamon and Teagan when he was a child, but never the warmth of a parent's love. Not that that was what he was feeling right now... He groaned, utterly confused.

"Are you injured?" Sten frowned. "I did not think you were hit that hard. Should I seek out Morrigan?"

"What?" Alistair whipped off his helm, wincing as the metal brushed against a tender spot near his temple. "No, not Morrigan. Maker's breath. She'd be as likely to cast a freeze spell on me as heal me, just for the entertainment value."

"Magic," Sten huffed. "I was suggesting her for her alchemical expertise, not...magic."

"Oh. Right." Alistair shook his head and gave the Qunari a quick grin. "I'm fine. See? No rattling."

Sten looked at him silently for a moment. "You are an odd man."

Alistair chuckled, a sound which quickly died as shouts reverberated through the estate. His breath caught. Before he could consciously decide to do so, he broke into a run, following the raucous noise.

"Alistair!" Oghren bellowed, his voice thundering with rage like the ex-templar had never before heard.

"I'm here," he said as he skidded to a stop behind the group. The blonde woman would be the Queen. Wynne, Zevran, and Oghren stood next to her, and the rest of their companions were filtering into the front hall.

Bryn was not there.

"Where is she?" he demanded. "Where--"

He broke off at the touch on his elbow and tried to bring his emotions under control. "What's happened?" Eamon asked calmly.

"Eamon, I--" Anora swallowed and shook her head. "I'm afraid I may have done a terrible thing."

"What?" Zevran scowled, the look all the more meaningful since Alistair could scarcely recall seeing anything but a lurid smile on the elf's face. "She throws her savior to the wolves and now she has second thoughts?"

"I panicked," Anora snapped. "I told her that my presence had to be a secret, and what does she do at the first sign of trouble? She reveals me to Ser Cauthrien!"

No more. "By all that's holy, if someone doesn't tell me right this bloody instant where Bryn is, I will start ripping this city apart to find her." Alistair barely recognized his own voice, low and dangerous.

"Fort Drakon," Anora supplied. "Cauthrien will have taken her to Fort Drakon. Getting in will be no small feat."

"Alistair." He turned at the gentle voice, the soft hand on his shoulder. Leliana stood there, her eyes filled with understanding, and he remembered she'd spent time in a prison in Orlais. Being tortured.

_Oh, Maker, please let that not happen to Bryn._

"Perhaps you should allow Zevran and myself to go in after her," she suggested. "We are experienced at subterfuge, yes? It will be easiest for us."

"No. Absolutely not." He started for the door, but Eamon's hand on his arm held him back.

"Alistair, be reasonable." The Arl regarded him with a pensive look. "Do you really think the future King of Ferelden should be storming a prison?"

Alistair jerked his arm out from Eamon's grasp. "I'm not King yet. Wynne, if you would."

The white-haired mage nodded, her face impassive, and fell into step beside him. He allowed himself a small surge of relief; he'd been half-afraid Wynne would protest his decision as well.

"I hope you have a plan," she murmured once they were out of earshot of the others.

"Not yet," he admitted. "But there's no way I'm staying here while someone else fixes this."

She was silent for a moment before draping an arm over his shoulder. "Good lad," she said.

###

Bryn came back to herself slowly. Cold wracked her body, seeping into her skin from the stone floor on which she lay. Maker--had they taken her clothes? She blinked her eyes open and winced as the meager light made her head ache. With a groan, she rose to a sitting position, her head cradled in one hand. Slowly, her surroundings filtered into her muddled brain: stone walls, iron bars. She'd ended up in prison, apparently.

Wonderful. Bloody wonderful. She was going to strangle Anora when she got out.

She looked at the floor, seeing instead the floor of Howe's dungeon. Covered in blood. Bodies. Howe's body. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes as if that would somehow stop the memories. Maker, she wanted to kill him again. And again. Once for every member of her family he'd assassinated, once for every soldier who had died trying to protect Highever.

A sob bubbled up from her chest. When had she become so consumed with hatred? She hadn't even realized that emotion still lurked within her, not until she'd seen the treacherous bastard walk into Eamon's estate beside Loghain. She thought she'd left it on the road somewhere, months ago. But no. It had taken all of her control not to scream at him, not to challenge him, but to remain detached.

Where was that detachment now? It wasn't the time to break down into a puddle of emotion, but she couldn't seem to gather her wits.

"Ah, lass," a rough voice said. "Tisn't that bad. They feed us regular. Mostly."

She swiped her hands against her eyes, surprise stemming her tears. "Who…?"

"No one." A quick chuckle. "Just a prisoner, like you."

There, in the next cell. A scrawny man, his hair and beard unkempt, sat with his back against the stone wall, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Bruises covered his ribs and blackened one of his eyes.

"So." He grinned. "What did you do?"

In Loghain's eyes, what hadn't she done? As far as he was concerned, she'd committed treason, conspired against Ferelden's best interests, and rallied forces against him. The only surprising thing, she realized, was that she hadn't been executed already.

She shrugged. "I'm a Grey Warden." That pretty much explained it all.

"_The_ Warden?" The man's mouth gaped. "I'd heard about you, before I got locked in here. Did you really kill King Cailan?"

"Maker's breath, no!"

"Hey," a guard posted in the hallway growled. "Enough yammering."

Bryn shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had to get out of here. And the guard's presence gave her an idea. She just hoped Alistair never found out.

She pushed herself upright and walked over to the bars at the front of her cell. They were just as cold as the floor beneath her feet, and she didn't have to fake the shiver that ran through her. "I--I'm so cold," she whimpered, remembering Morrigan's advice.

_Men always want to believe two things of a woman. One, that she is helpless. And two, that she thinks he is attractive._

"Eh? What's that?" The guard took a step forward.

"It's so very cold." Bryn wrapped her arms around herself, making sure to plump up her assets. "Could I…have a blanket, perhaps?"

"Ain't no blankets here," the guard grumbled.

"Oh." Bryn shifted so her breasts pressed against the bars and tried not to hiss as the cold metal burned her skin. "Is there…another way…I could be warmed?"

Interest sparked in the guard's eyes. "Another way, is it? Aye, I think another way might be possible."

Bryn shuddered at the lust in the soldier's face, but kept her disgust from her face. "Thank you, ser."

"Don't thank me yet, lass," he said, his voice dropping as he opened the door to her cell. "You'll be wanting to soon enough."

She didn't hesitate as the door opened fully. She darted in close, grabbed his sword, and struck him down before he could react.

"Holy Maker," the prisoner breathed. "I--I can see why the regent is so scared of you."

She flashed him a quick smile as she retrieved the cell keys from the guard. Quickly, quickly, her mind whispered. Another guard would be by soon, and she didn't want to meet him unarmored and with only a substandard sword. She had to find her things and prepare herself. But first…

She unlocked the prisoner's cell and pushed the door open. "Can you make it out on your own?" she asked softly.

"I can sodding well try!" he said, lurching to his feet. "Thank you, lady Warden. Maker watch over you."

"And you."

She spotted a chest nearby and opened it, relieved to see her armor and weapons inside. She would have hated to leave Duncan's sword and dagger behind. She donned her gear as fast as she could, then pulled the shadows to her.

Time to make her exit.

The mabaris in the kennel scented her and began barking, but luckily the kennel master wasn't as intelligent as his dogs. He shouted at them to be quiet and cuffed one behind the ears--earning himself a nip--then carried on with his chores. Bryn took a shaky breath and continued. Something at the back of her brain warned her that it was too easy. Escaping from a prison full of guards should not be--

"Andraste's ass," she muttered as a guarded door came into view. Two guards at the door, another three off to the side playing cards, and a sixth standing at the rear of the room, bow at the ready. If she had Alistair to take the guards' focus from her as she flanked them, she wouldn't hesitate to instigate the fray. But alone…

The door burst open and the familiar tingle of templar magic--so different from Wynne's and Morrigan's, and yet so similar--washed over her skin. The holy fire Alistair could call wasn't as effective on non-casters, but still packed a punch. The three guards playing cards flew back into the wall and lay there, stunned, as the would-be King charged into the room.

Bryn's throat closed as tears burned her eyes. He'd come for her. No; there'd be time for emotion later. Now she needed to focus on action.

She crept forward, setting herself behind the bowman taking aim at Alistair. Make the first attack as lethal as possible, Zev had taught her. She aimed her strike, then took it. The guard crumpled to the ground with a scream that cut off into a gurgle.

Bryn dashed across the room, taking advantage of the other guards' stunned states to finish off two more. The third lurched to his feet before she could reach him and charged her, yelling. Bryn stumbled back, then dodged, but her muscles were still hampered by cold. The guard's shield caught her in the side, and she staggered and fell. She looked up, blinking, knowing she should move away from the sword arcing down toward her--

She felt the tingle of magic an instant before the force slammed into her, and everything faded.

Sight came back first. Alistair appeared over her, moving slowly, as though through water. His mouth formed words, and although she couldn't hear what he was saying, the worry etched on his face was plain. She shook her head, and sound came flooding back.

"Bryn! Maker…Wynne, you have to help…"

Bryn giggled. "Our names rhyme."

"Your names…" Alistair's voice trailed off, then she was pulled into his arms and crushed against his breastplate. "Holy Maker, don't _do_ that to me."

"You're the one who hit me with that--_ow_. My head." Bryn pressed a hand against her temple.

"It'll fade in a moment, child," the white-haired mage assured her as healing magic soothed her hurts.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't close enough, and you were down--" Alistair broke off. He looked different, somehow, but there wasn't time analyze it. They had to get moving.

"You did what you had to," Bryn said. "Come on, help me up before more guards appear."

The only other pocket of resistance they met was near the front entrance, and then they were racing through the streets of Denerim like the archdemon itself was fast on their heels.


	4. Bryce Cousland's Little Spitfire

**Bryce Cousland's Little Spitfire**

Alistair lay awake long past the time the rest of the estate had quieted. Being in the city again was…odd. When he'd arrived as a Grey Warden recruit, he'd welcomed the bustle of Denerim after so many years in the serene monastery near Redcliffe, but now he almost longed for the solitude of camp. Almost. Some things he didn't miss. Like the bugs, or having to serve on watch, or waking up with dew all over his face, or…ugh…the sounds emanating from Oghren's tent. Snores, and worse. Sleeping in a bed again was a nice treat, too.

But right now, he'd rather be at camp, laying on the opposite side of the fire from Bryn, able to unobtrusively check on her, to assure himself she was really there.

He closed his eyes, his breaths growing ragged as he struggled to get his emotions in check. Maybe it was the stress of the day, or the memory of the fear he'd felt when Bryn had succumbed to his smite, but all of his templar discipline had fled for the moment. His hands fisted in the blankets. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and out of bed. He'd just peek through her door and make sure she was okay. No one could fault him for that, could they? And no one had to know, at any rate.

Her room was just down the hall from his. Fifteen paces. Sound leaked through the door and he paused, his hand hovering over the handle. Maker, was she…was she crying?

His hand fell back to his side as he considered just turning around and heading back to his room.

_Coward. _

She sniffled as he entered, wiping the back of one hand over her cheeks. "Alistair. Andraste's blood. Don't you know how to knock?"

He shrugged. "There were no doors in the stables. Just lots of hay, you know. It's tough to knock on hay."

"Leave me alone," she whispered, rolling over. "I just want to be alone."

"I thought you might want to talk. Or--" He fidgeted, missing the familiar weight of his armor. Everything was easier to face with a sheet of metal folded around your body. "Or maybe a shoulder to lean on."

Her back quaked as her sobs renewed. Something in his chest twisted and demanded he fix things. He perched on the edge of her bed and rubbed her back. "Bryn, love, don't cry." He stilled as the endearment flowed past his lips effortlessly, but she didn't notice it.

"I killed him." She hiccupped. "The things he said…oh, Maker, I know he said them just to prod at me, but it worked. I thought about my mother and father, about Oren and Oriana, about Fergus, and I--I killed him, Alistair. I thought it would make things better. I thought this--this…" Her voice trailed off and the ex-templar thought for a moment that she wasn't going to finish. "This emptiness," she whispered at last, "would go away. But it hasn't. It's like…I'm dead inside. Howe met justice like Father wanted, and…there's nothing left of _me_. I don't know who I am anymore." She shifted onto her back to look up at him. His heart clenched to see her eyes so red-rimmed, so uncertain. "Who am I?"

_The woman I love._ Oh, Maker, now was not the time for _that_ confession. If it was even true. He pushed the confusion aside and focused on Bryn's watery eyes instead. "You are Bryn Cousland, daughter of the real Teyrn of Highever…which, I guess, makes you the teyrna, now," he said softly. "You are The Warden, a symbol of hope for all of Ferelden. When we defeat the Blight, Bryn, it will be because of you, and no one can deny that." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. "You are noble, and kind, and you see things in people that no one else can. You want to find the good in everyone, and when there's none to be found…" He gave her a tight smile. "You didn't fail anyone, Bryn. Not yourself, not your parents or your brother or his family. Certainly not Rendon Howe."

"I feel…" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "Tainted. Yes, I know. Don't say it."

One corner of his mouth quirked. "Me? Make a smart comment? Never."

Humor flashed in her eyes, there and gone almost before he recognized it. "It's just…I was living with this hate for so long, and I never really knew it. Not until…" She rolled away from him again. "And now, I can still feel it there. Even though it should be gone, it's not. And that's not who I am, Alistair. It isn't."

His hand squeezed her shoulder. So terribly inadequate--the gesture, his presence, everything. "I know."

She nodded. "Yes, you do, don't you? You're probably the only one who really does."

She didn't continue, but she didn't have to. Alistair knew exactly what she meant. He'd harbored an intense hatred for Loghain since Ostagar, something he'd never tried to camouflage. The Blight--important, yes, the fate of Thedas was in their hands. But Loghain had to be dealt with first. The regent would pay--for the deaths of Duncan and Alistair's brother Wardens, and for the death of Cailan. The half-brother he'd never really known.

He felt a hand on his knee and looked down to find Bryn staring up at him. "It's my turn to ask if you're all right," she said with the barest hint of a smile.

"Just thinking."

"You know, if you keep that up, people are going to figure out that you're not as dumb as you look."

Alistair scowled at her. "Very funny. You know, I think that comment deserves some punishment. And it just occurs to me that you are without your armor, so…"

"Alistair…don't you dare… No!"

Her protests disintegrated into giggles as his fingers found just the right spots for tickling: along her ribs, at the hollow of her neck, across her stomach. His lips stretched into a wide grin and he found himself laughing too as she struggled vainly to escape the merciless torture. At some point during the attack, he shifted, half-covering her body with his. She looked up, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed…and he was lost.

He captured her mouth with his, a groan emerging from his throat. She responded eagerly, her lips hot against his. Her back arched, and one of his arms snuck underneath her to pull her closer. Her hands whispered through his hair, her fingers finally coming to rest at the nape of his neck. The shift she wore, the nightshirt covering his chest--both felt insubstantial compared to the armor that usually separated them. But it was still too much.

Some instinct he hadn't even known he possessed prompted him to position himself above her, his arms braced on either side. Her knees parted, and he settled _just there_… Her breath hitched as she moved, moved _just right_… Maker, they had too many clothes on. Her shift bunched in his hand as he began to push it up.

Alistair froze. He wasn't actually--they weren't going to--

"Maker's breath," he gasped and pushed himself up and off the bed.

Bryn frowned and levered herself up, her elbows shoved behind her so she could watch his panicked retreat. "What is it?"

"We can't…" He swung one hand in a wild gesture. "Do _that_."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" he echoed. Good question. "I…because I…"

She sat up all the way, her hands twisting together in her lap. When she spoke, she wouldn't meet his eyes. "I've never been with anyone, either. You know that. There were…opportunities…but I never wanted a casual thing. Maybe it was foolish of me, but I always hoped…I always dreamed…ugh." She blew out a breath and glared at him. "I can face down a broodmother but I can't just say this. I love you, all right? Happy?"

"You…what?"

"Andraste's ass. You're not going to make me repeat it."

His brows drew down. If she'd said what he thought she'd said, she should be smiling, right? Not looking as though she'd sensed darkspawn. So perhaps he hadn't-- "Uh…maybe?"

"I love you." Her voice was less irritated this time, softer. "I don't know when it happened, but I know when I finally figured it out. The road outside Redcliffe, when you gave me the rose. I…" Her voice trailed off, her brows dipping as she watched him. "What is it?"

Love? But…Maker, he thought that was what he felt, but how was he supposed to _know_? He was just a bastard, worthless, unworthy of that level of emotion from anyone. Love was merely a concept, not something he'd ever experienced in any of its forms. And here she was--this amazing, beautiful, strong woman, this _hero_--professing to love him? A--a nobody who should have died with the rest of the Wardens?

"I--" He shook his head and fell back a step, then reached for the door handle. "I have to go."

"Alistair--"

He darted into the hall, ignoring both her protests and the voice in his head mocking his cowardice.


	5. Living Up to a Promise

**Living Up to a Promise**

Bryn sat in one of the library's deep leather chairs, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs stretched out before her. The small window set high in the wall showed a perfectly crystalline sky in direct opposition to her mood. Maker, would it be too much to ask to have a dreary day for once? Low, grey clouds, drizzle, maybe a bit of wind?

"Bryn, my friend, you are in a terrible mood."

The Warden closed her eyes briefly and groaned as Leliana invaded her retreat. "I'm allowed to be."

"Oh, I won't argue that," Leliana said. Bryn could hear the smile in her lilting voice. "Yesterday was not--"

Yesterday was not something she ever wanted to talk about. "Did you seek me out for a reason?"

The bard stepped into view. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, and Bryn knew she wasn't moving from that spot until she got her way. Wonderful.

"I did indeed," the red-haired woman said. "I need arrows."

Bryn began to reach for her money pouch, but Leliana frowned and shook her head. "Let me finish."

"But…you stopped talking."

"That doesn't mean I was done." She sighed. "I need arrows, but I believe someone made a promise to a certain ex-templar…something about visiting a long-lost sister?"

"Not today." Bryn's voice came out harsher than she'd intended, and Leliana cocked her head.

"If not today, when?" Leliana's lips pursed. "The Queen has already suggested we investigate the Alienage this afternoon, yes? And the Landsmeet will be called soon after that. These are the last few hours of free time that we have." The bard crouched before Bryn and laid a hand on her knee. "I don't know what has happened between the two of you--nothing serious, I pray--but regardless, this is something with which he trusted you, something which you promised to do."

Bryn shifted uncomfortably under the Orlesian's clear, direct gaze. Heat rose in her cheeks. Anger? Embarrassment? Both, she realized. The last thing she wanted was to spend any time with Alistair today, let alone help him deal with a personal matter. She'd rather venture out of the city alone and be set upon by the archdemon itself.

The words she'd tried so desperately not to say had just tumbled out of her last night, and how did he respond to her baring her soul? By running. By rejecting her.

Maker, it _hurt_.

"It _isn't_ a serious problem, is it, Bryn?" Concern filled Leliana's voice.

The Warden let her eyes drift closed and her head drooped. She felt off-balance, her entire sense of self upended. Howe, Fort Drakon, and now her heart being twisted by Alistair…

But she wasn't allowed time to react or reflect, was she? No, there was always another task to be done, another problem to be solved. She was The Warden, after all. Maybe Bryn Cousland truly had ceased to exist.

"Fine," she grumbled. "Get Alistair, and let's go."

###

"Well." Alistair glanced at the shack they'd just left, his face reflecting his disappointment. "That wasn't what I was expecting. To put it lightly."

Bryn clenched her fists at her sides, her emotions roiling in her gut. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Maker, she wanted to slit that harpy's throat.

_You killed Mother, you did._

She didn't know if he remembered the dream he'd had in the Fade, when they'd been trapped by the sloth demon, but she did. In it, he'd been with his sister and her family, unbelievably happy and content and at peace. All he'd ever wanted was a family to love him and welcome him, regardless of who his father was. And this…this gold-digging _bitch_ was what he got instead.

"I just…" He looked back at her, confusion swirling in his eyes. "I thought she'd accept me without question. Isn't that what families are supposed to do?"

Why wasn't he angry? How could he just stand there, looking as though he believed he deserved every harsh word that had spewed from that harpy's mouth?

"I--"

"Stop. Just…stop." Anger vibrated through her. So much anger, so many reasons to be angry--it all blended together into one horrible, pulsating mass just behind her breastbone, demanding release. "You're a grown man, Alistair. You want acceptance? A place to belong? Stop depending on other people to provide that for you. Start looking out for yourself. All you've done since--since Ostagar is run away. You ran away from the responsibility of making decisions, heaping that on me. You've run away from your heritage, refusing to think about it and hoping it would go away. Your destiny is going to descend upon you, whether you like it or not, and you have a choice: just let it happen and resent it, or welcome it and have a say in shaping your future." She raised her chin, her jaw set. "Whatever you decide, I'm done holding your hand."

"_Warden_," Leliana breathed from behind her. Bryn ignored the bard and started to brush past Alistair.

His hand darted out to catch her wrist. His eyes were dark, unfathomable. "Done? You don't mean…"

"Yes." She blew out a breath and shook her head. "No. I don't know." She sucked in a breath, startled that it sounded so ragged. "I'm just--"

"Tired, yes?" Leliana interjected. She expertly inserted herself between Bryn and Alistair, draping an arm over the Warden's shoulders and pulling her away. "Tired, and saying things you do not mean. Come. We can have a brief respite before we investigate the Alienage. A hot bath will do you wonders, I think."

Bryn swore under her breath. "Leliana, we haven't the time--"

"We will make the time," the bard insisted, her voice firm. "You, my friend, are not yourself. We will take an hour, perhaps two, so that you do not continue to attack your allies instead of your enemies. Agreed?"

Bryn cast a glance over her shoulder as Leliana led her through the marketplace. Alistair hadn't moved, except to cross his arms. He stared at the dirt, every line of his body screaming defeat.

Tears burned her eyes and she wrenched her gaze away. "Agreed," she said, her voice rough.


	6. A Son of the Blood

**A Son of the Blood**

Slavers in the Alienage. Maker's breath. She had a hard time believing that Loghain, the Hero of River Dane, would resort to such a vile action to fund his war against the bannorn. But the proof was in her belt pouch: documents she'd recovered from the head slaver's body bearing Loghain's seal. No one would be able to dispute this claim.

It was the final piece they'd needed to fortify their case against the regent. That, plus the testimony that Loghain had snatched a maleficar from one of the templars of the Chantry in order to poison Eamon, plus the evidence of Rendon Howe's liberal use of torture against dissenters…they would win. They had to.

Bryn made her way down the hall to Eamon's study, eager to tell the Arl the news. Her steps slowed as raised voices reached her ears. Without thinking, she drew the shadows to her and crept forward.

"Don't look at me like that, Eamon," Alistair growled. "It's not that stupid of an idea."

"She's not a Theirin, Alistair. You are."

Bryn frowned. She and Alistair had already spoken of Anora and her betrayal; given that history, they couldn't trust her to rule. So why was he arguing this with Eamon?

"Maybe in name, but we both know I'll never live up to Maric the Savior, and I'll always be in Cailan's shadow."

"Alistair--"

"No, just listen to me for once." The ex-templar took a deep breath. Bryn wasn't close enough to see him, but she could picture a gauntleted hand running through his hair. "She's the one who has united Ferelden. She's the one to whom the nobles have all pledged their aid, not me. I know my history, Eamon; her father had enough support after the Orlesian occupation ended that he could have taken the throne if he'd pressed the matter. As Bryce Cousland's daughter, she would have just as much support as I would garner. More, I'd wager, since she doesn't have the stigma of being a bastard."

Maker. They _weren't_ considering supporting Anora. Bryn gripped the doorframe and leaned her forehead against it.

"Since you've studied history, lad, you know the main reason Bryce Cousland didn't press for the throne is because his family have been staunch royalists since Elethea Cousland swore fealty to Calenhad." Bryn shifted slightly, angling around the doorframe to spot Eamon. The Arl's brows were drawn low. "Yes, Bryce Cousland had the support to take the throne from either Maric or Cailan, and he didn't. He knew the importance of the Theirin blood." The older man sighed. "This is your destiny, lad, and yours alone."

"But--"

"Enough. Ferelden deserves a ruler of the Theirin blood, Alistair."

Bryn rose and cleared her throat before entering the study. The Arl's bushy brows lifted as he spotted her. "Warden! Excellent. You have news from the Alienage?"

She glanced at Alistair standing to the side of the room, but his expression was carefully blank. Turning her attention back to Eamon, she filled him in about what they'd discovered.

"Maker's breath." He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "I should be horrified, but I'm grateful that we have this additional evidence against him. With your leave, I'll send word for the nobles to gather at the palace."

"What--now?" Bryn's chest tightened. "It's late in the day. Surely it should wait until tomorrow."

"And give Loghain a chance to react to your actions in the Alienage? I'd prefer to avoid that." The Arl clasped his hands behind his back. "The nobility have been ready for some time. I think it's best we proceed as soon as possible."

It was always like this with Eamon: he asked for her permission to proceed, giving the illusion of a choice, and then revealed that there really was no choice at all. "Fine," she said curtly. "Let's get this over with, then."

"Very good. I will meet you at the palace." Eamon paused on his way out the door. "And, Alistair? Do put on something a little less battleworn, if you would?"

Bryn stood there stupidly after the Arl left, staring at the man who would be King. They hadn't spoken since his sister's, and she couldn't think of anything to say now, not with the Landsmeet imminent. And that was idiotic. After this event, they would be dead--executed by Loghain should the Landsmeet side with him--or Alistair would be King. Either way, nothing was ever going to be the same.

"Are you hurt?"

She frowned. "What?"

He jerked his chin at her fingers, which were rubbing absently at a spot just under her collarbone.

She whipped her hand away, to her side, then behind her back…Maker, it didn't seem to fit anywhere. She settled on smoothing the leather skirt of her armor and cleared her throat. "Are you ready?"

"No." The one word, so devoid of laughter or wit, told her more than a soliloquy.

She closed her eyes as pain twisted in her chest. "Alistair--"

"I suppose I should dig out Cailan's armor," he said, looking down at his worn silverite. A finger absently followed a long gouge in the breastplate. "It would be an appropriate time to wear it, don't you think?"

The golden King's armor that they'd retrieved from Ostagar, the suit of plate that Alistair had refused to wear despite its obvious quality. Bryn nodded, her voice trapped somewhere in her throat. She wanted to fix this rift between them, but she didn't have the words, or the time.

"I'll go don it, then." He strode toward the door, then paused, one hand on the doorframe. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes tracing the ridges of his gauntlet. "I'll be ready," he said, finally.

Bryn's breath hitched as he disappeared. Oh, but Maker…would she?


	7. The Quality of His Enemies

**The Quality of His Enemies**

Anora betrayed them--again, despite her insistence that her father needed to be stopped. Dull surprise had wound through Bryn when the Queen appeared and accused her of slandering Loghain, but in the end, it hadn't mattered. Ferelden's nobility was firmly behind The Warden and Maric's son.

The duel was a formality, a way for Loghain to retain what little honor the title of Hero of River Dane still afforded him after everything he'd done over the past year. Bryn had considered fighting Loghain herself, but she chose Alistair to be her champion. It was his opportunity to stand apart from her, to allow the bannorn to get a taste for their new king's ability.

Bryn watched the battle, trying to keep her face calm and impassive. Zevran stood close on her right side and she knew he had situated himself so near her not to be lewd, but to offer as much support as he could. Who would have thought that the Antivan assassin would turn out to be one of her most trusted companions? Bryn kept her arms crossed, and if anyone noticed the marks her fingernails were leaving in the skin of her upper arms, no one mentioned it.

Thrust. Block. Parry. Strike. Repeat. A familiar dance, but never had victory meant so much. If Alistair fell here, the Landsmeet would revert to support Loghain.

He would not fail.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the regent dropped to one knee, breathing heavily. He tossed down his weapon and shield, his eyes firmly on the floor. Alistair stood over him, his sword held in perfect form as he waited.

"There's some of Maric in you, after all," Loghain rasped, regaining his feet. "I yield."

Alistair whipped off Cailan's helm, and it clattered to the floor. "Forget Maric," he spat. "This is for Duncan."

Bryn rushed forward as he threw aside his shield and she stayed his sword-hand with hers. His eyes fastened on her, and she saw the hate still roiling in her chest reflected in those darkened, tormented eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, but she wordlessly offered him Duncan's sword.

With a tight nod, he gripped it, and carried out justice.

###

"So, it's decided. Alistair will take his father's throne."

Eamon's voice rang throughout the subdued Landsmeet chamber. Bryn let her eyes travel over the assembled nobles, gauging their reaction to the Arl's proclamation. A handful nodded in agreement; others seemed less decisive, whispering to their neighbors. Still others' faces were dark with rage or horror. Bryn's lips pressed into a thin line. Alistair's first action as King--Loghain's brutal execution--may have ripped the throne from under him before he'd ever really claimed it.

"Wait, what?"

Bryn's eyes whipped to Alistair. He wasn't--oh, Maker, please let him _not_ be protesting the outcome now…

The ex-templar raised his hands as if to ward off Eamon's words. "No. Nobody's decided anything!"

Heat rushed up Bryn's neck into her cheeks. "Alistair," she hissed.

"Everyone's heard him!" Anora crowed. "He refuses his father's crown and abdicates in favor of me."

Eamon groaned, one gloved hand rubbing the lines etched into his forehead. "Anora, I hardly think you're the appropriate party to mediate this. Warden! Will you settle this dispute?"

Andraste's ass. Of course it would come down to being her choice. Bryn carefully kept any emotion from her face, her noble's mask firmly in place.

"Certainly, Arl Eamon," she answered, pleased that her voice was even. "Alistair, might I have a word?"

His brows twitched in puzzlement but he followed her a short distance from the rest of the nobility. She made sure her movements stayed calm, measured, even though she wanted to wrap her leather-clad hands around his neck.

"What are you doing?" she said softly. "You knew this was going to be the outcome if we won. Why--"

"Maker's blood. I don't know." His face was tight, his muscles coiled as though readying for a fight. He closed his eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" She wanted to lay a hand on his arm, to offer some kind of reassurance, but she couldn't. Not with most of the bannorn watching.

His eyes snapped open. They gleamed with determination, with unvoiced arguments, and Bryn knew he was going to back down from their plan. How were they going to explain this--

"Make me king," he demanded. His voice was strong, sure; nothing remained of the uncertainty that had colored it even a day ago. "Anora is not an option."

Bryn blinked and it took a moment for her to formulate a response. "You--you sound so certain."

"Shouldn't I be?" His eyes narrowed. "You're the one who told me I should take a stand after meeting my--after meeting Goldanna. And you were right." His gaze softened, just a little. "Maker, you were right. All I've done my entire life is wish that things were different and resent it when they weren't. But this…I can do this. I might not know politics the way Anora does, but I know what needs to be done. I can get the armies moving against the Blight. She's already betrayed us twice; who's to say she wouldn't just have us thrown into Fort Drakon if you handed her the crown?"

"Warden," Eamon prompted gently.

Bryn realized the nobles were starting to stir, murmurs lifting from the crowd.

"Are you ready?" she whispered.

One corner of his mouth quirked. "As ready as anyone ever is for this kind of thing, I suppose. Which is to say…" He inclined his head. His lips curved, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes. I'm ready."

She nodded. She and the would-be King stepped back to stand beside Eamon and Anora. Bryn cast her gaze about the hall, stalling for just a moment more. The gathered nobility waited impatiently, restless. The words she'd overheard Alistair speaking to Eamon fluttered through her mind.

_She's the one to whom the nobles have all pledged their aid, not me. As Bryce Cousland's daughter, she would have just as much support as I would garner._

She didn't want power. Like Alistair, she'd never wanted it. She'd heard the rumors that had begun floating about Highever, hints that her father was considering naming her his heir instead of Fergus, and they'd terrified her. She'd never had the chance to discuss it with him, so she didn't know if they had any root in truth.

But, Maker, Anora could not be trusted to rule. And she didn't know if the nobility would accept Alistair on his own.

"I'm ready to decide," she announced. Her voice rose above the mutters and whispers, and the room quieted.

Relief colored the Arl's features. "Yes, Warden?"

The Landsmeet stilled. Waiting.

"Alistair will be king," she stated clearly. Gasps peppered the crowd. One or two protests emerged, but Bryn held up her hand and waited for the crowd to settle down once more.

When it did, she continued. "And I will rule beside him."


	8. I Know What I Feel

**I Know What I Feel**

Alistair paused in the hall outside the dining room and eyed the closed door. Murmurs of conversation and the occasional bark of laughter--Oghren, most likely--snuck through. More than a door separated him from the rest of the companions now, though.

He was King…or he would be soon enough. Maker, when would that thought stop making his stomach twist into knots?

Not only King. Engaged. To Bryn. Not that it was a bad thing, but…he felt rather like he was walking through a dream. Memories of the first nightmare after his Joining rushed through his mind. A beautiful, fantasy-filled picture of his future--himself as King, with a queen and a child--torn to shreds by darkness. Would the same happen here?

Maker's breath. Children. He'd forgotten about that lovely side effect of the taint; there'd been no reason to consider it a problem until now.

Could this get any worse?

_Stop being such an ass._ He'd practically shouted at Bryn to crown him, and she'd followed through, doing what she had to in order to ensure his claim. His destiny was upon him, like she'd warned, and he'd be damned if he was going to run away anymore.

He took a deep breath and fortified himself, then pushed open the door. His companions were arranged around the room, but his eyes unerringly found his fellow Warden. She stood, facing the table and their companions, her back to the door.

"Ah, Bryn," Zevran was saying. The assassin bowed, a twinkle in his eyes. "You were always queen of my heart. Now it is merely official."

"Fool elf," Morrigan chided.

Oghren smiled behind his bushy red beard. "Does this mean we can raid the castle's liquor stores?"

Alistair cleared his throat. Bryn spun and that damned mask fell into place. She crossed her arms.

"So," he began, "funny story. Tell me if you've heard this one. This fellow gets made King, and then gets engaged…all on the same night."

Her arms tightened across her chest. "It got you the throne, didn't it?"

His brows dropped. "And that's the only reason you decided to make that rather momentous announcement in front of the Landsmeet? Without mentioning it to me beforehand?"

"Well, let's see. When should I have discussed it with you? While Loghain was bellowing his arguments, perhaps," she mused. Her eyes glittered. "Or maybe during your duel? Or when you balked at the last possible second? Tell me, Alistair, when was there time?"

He blew out a breath. "I don't know. It's just--"

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "Does it upset you that much?"

"No!" The denial jolted from his lips with more force than he'd intended. "No, it's not that. I--I like the idea. I just…are you sure?"

She looked up at him and her eyes were clearer than he'd seen them in days. "Am I sure I want to marry you?" She nodded. "Yes."

"Really?" He couldn't stop the grin that stretched his lips. "After Goldanna's…what happened to not holding my hand anymore?"

She had the grace to look a bit sheepish. Her fair cheeks flushed. "I'll hold it as a partner, not as a leader. Can we agree on that?"

Absolutely. He held the affirmation back, though, for the moment. "They'll expect an heir, you know," he said, his voice somber. "With the taint in our blood, it's hard enough for a Warden to have a child on their own. For two of them…" He took a deep breath as he pondered his next words. Would they send her running? They'd never spoken about their future, not really, and he had no idea if children were something she wanted. "Every Grey Warden I knew who had children, had them before they took the Joining. Having an heir…might not be possible."

Her expression darkened for a moment, just a small slip of her mask, and Alistair knew the news had hit home. Maker…why couldn't he give her good news for once?

"Well." Her lips twisted. "It won't be for lack of trying."

"It won't--" He blinked as heat rose from his neck into his cheeks and up to his ears, setting them afire. "Wow. Is that me blushing? Yes, yes, it sure is."

Finally, a smile. It lit her face, lightening her features, and he suddenly felt that maybe--maybe--everything was going to be all right. "Arl Eamon has already left for Redcliffe," he reported, "and he says the armies have almost finished gathering there."

"Then we shall go back to camp and prepare for the road, yes?" Leliana said. She pushed to her feet and gestured for the other companions to do the same. "I'm sure you two need some time to talk without us listening in."

"But, Leliana--"

The bard waved a hand to silence Bryn's protests. "Hush, Warden. We can handle clearing the camp without you and Alistair. Talk. You have much to discuss, yes?"

Oghren sniggered as he rose. "You really think they'll be talking, Red?"

"Perhaps not," Leliana admitted with a sly grin. "But that is needed as well."

Oh, Maker. A glance at Bryn's face revealed it was as pink as his felt.

The dwarf guffawed and slapped Leliana on the back, sending her staggering forward a few steps. "You're all right. For an Orlesian."

The rest of the companions filtered out of the room, shooting knowing looks between him and Bryn. So they all thought…and that was the main reason why…

And why not? The realization hit him with the force of a hurlock's sword. Their final battle with the archdemon loomed on the horizon. The fighting they'd experienced up to this point was likely nothing in comparison to what they would face now, as the horde truly descended on Ferelden. If he didn't take this step now, he might never have a chance. And she was going to be his wife. His wife. Maker. That thought twisted his insides almost as much as thoughts of his coronation.

Dying didn't really scare him. Dying with Bryn not knowing what she meant to him, without showing her…that was terrifying.

"I--I didn't know about the heir thing," she admitted after the door closed behind Wynne, the last of their companions to leave. "We don't have to go through with this if you--"

"Do you love me?" he demanded.

"Do I…what?" She shook her head, confusion in her eyes.

He raised a brow. "Do you love me?"

She crossed her arms and huffed out a breath. "You know I do. I already told you that," she said. "Whereas _you_ have not said any such thing to me."

"Then come with me." He turned and walked out of the dining room, trying to ignore how his heart pounded against his breastbone. She would follow, right?

His heart resumed a normal rhythm as he heard the door open and close again behind him. He glanced back, a smile twitching on his lips, and led her to his room.


	9. That

_**That.**_

Bryn followed the ex-templar up the stairs. Purely to give him a piece of her mind, she assured herself. If he thought that he was going to get away with getting her to admit--again--that she loved him, and then just order her about…

Well. He was about to discover that _that_ was not the sort of marriage she was cut out for.

He reached his room and slipped inside a few seconds before she did. She opened the door, and a startled gasp lurched past her lips as his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Before she realized what was happening, Bryn found herself pressed against the back of the closed door, her fiancé looming over her.

And then his mouth was on hers, and all thought fled.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her lips. "I was a fool last night. I never should have left."

"Yes," Bryn agreed between raspy breaths. "You were."

"Good to know we're of a mind on that." Alistair chuckled, but his smile quickly died. "I want this, Bryn--I want _you_--but you know I've never done this before. I--I want it to be right."

She laid a finger on his lips. "We'll figure it out, Alistair. You need to relax."

"I really do, don't I?"

"You really do." She pushed him back until his legs hit the bed and he sat down heavily. Deliberately, she pulled off her drakeskin gloves and dropped them to the floor. She met his eyes, and something she saw there--abject appreciation, maybe?--emboldened her. Her lips curved as she slowly unbuckled one strap on the chest piece of her armor. Then a second.

"Maker's breath." Alistair's voice was uneven, shaky. "Is this supposed to help me relax? If so, it's not working."

Bryn ignored his protest and continued to disengage her armor. Finally, each of the straps were unfastened and hanging loose. She held the armor in place for a moment with one hand, then let it drop.

Alistair's eyes darkened appreciatively. "You are so incredible," he breathed.

She smiled. "Your turn."

"My--" He looked down at his golden armor. "You want me to…?"

Her smile grew as she nodded.

Alistair groaned and rose from the bed. "If you tell anyone…"

"It won't go beyond this room." Bryn giggled as she took Alistair's place. "Warden's honor."

"Wonderful. You do realize that the Wardens occasionally aren't the most honorable of people, right?"

Bryn reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows, as Alistair peeled off his right gauntlet. It clattered to the floor. "Graceful," she said, one brow arched.

"Hush, you." His eyes caught hers and she sucked in a breath at the heat there. Intense. Scorching. Her body responded eagerly to the promises his gaze made her.

The second gauntlet fell, but Bryn hardly noticed. Her throat had gone dry. She swallowed and shifted, pinned in place by his eyes alone. She'd never seen him look like that--so utterly focused on her, like she was the entirety of his world.

She blinked. Caught in the spell he'd woven, she hadn't realized he'd already divested himself of the rest of his armor. His hard chest glistened in the flickering firelight. He strode toward her and her breath disappeared.

"You forgot one thing," he said, his voice low and just as intense as his eyes. He leaned over her, and she forgot how to breathe, thinking he was going to kiss her, that she'd feel his hot skin pressing against her…but instead, he reached back, to the nape of her neck, and unpinned the braids coiled there. With a little encouragement, the plaits unraveled and waves cascaded to pool on the bed.

"I've wanted to see your hair down since that first day in Ostagar," he rumbled, one hand tangling in the dark tresses. "Do you know how distracting it was, wondering how it would look draped over your shoulders?"

"And?" She shook her head, smiling as the locks rippled with the movement. "Do you like it?"

In answer, he covered her mouth with his and they fell back onto the bed. His lips and tongue teased hers, sending tingles running through her body. She was on fire--no, electrified, her senses overwhelmed with awareness. His scent enveloped her--the tang of flesh-warmed metal, the musky oil he used to clean his armor and weapons, and something else, something uniquely Alistair. She inhaled deeply, then moved her lips to his jaw. Her tongue darted out, feeling the delicious harshness of the slight stubble there, and she nipped, unable to stop herself. He groaned, so she did it again. And again.

His lips found the hollow just above her collarbone and seared her there. She gasped as his mouth and teeth traced the line of her shoulder, then moved onto her collarbone, then lower…

She arched her back as he reached her breast. Her bra had disappeared. She didn't remember removing it, so he must have. Then his tongue flicked over her nipple, and she no longer cared about her bra's destiny. Only that he continue. _That._ He moved to her other breast and gave it the same ministrations, and she whimpered.

He chuckled low in his throat, then positioned himself so he could take her lips again. Her hands skimmed over his arms, and she could feel the tension vibrating through him. He laid his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as he struggled to maintain his control, his breathing ragged. She traced the line of his cheek with one finger.

"No more waiting," she whispered.

His eyes opened a crack and he gave her a quick smile. "Thank the Maker."

In the space of a handful of breaths, the remainder of their clothes were gone, and nothing was left between them. Everywhere his skin touched hers, it burned. His hand tracing the ridges of her ribs. His lips on her ear. The planes of his chest pressed against her. And, more…lower.

"I do love you, you know," he said suddenly, his eyes fastening on hers.

A bemused chuckle tripped past her lips. "I know."

"Good. I just didn't want you to think--well, it would have been awkward to say it later…"

"Alistair." Bryn lifted her hips and smiled as his gaze grew unfocused, even as her own voice failed her. She shifted her hips again, moaning at the sensation of him…right there…so close and yet not nearly close enough. "No more talking," she gasped.

"Maker--" He groaned as they fit together, like it was meant, like they'd been made for each other.

Then neither of them said anything more for quite some time.

###

Alistair lay beside Bryn, propped up on one elbow so he could watch her sleep. The moonlight arcing through the room's one high window kissed her cheek with its cold light, highlighting the fairness and smoothness of her skin. He should sleep, he knew he should, but part of him worried that if he closed his eyes, he'd wake to discover this had only been a dream. The most amazing dream of his life, but only that. He was nearly afraid to blink, lest she dissipate like the morning fog.

This woman--this amazing woman--was going to be his wife. Maker, he could hardly believe it. He'd never known that someone could love him, truly love him, or that he had the capacity to return the depth of that emotion. Even now, after making love twice, the thundering of his heart hadn't diminished; the desire he felt for her hadn't waned.

He loved her. With everything he had, he loved her.

His smile fell as he thought about what the morning would bring. They still had to get to Redcliffe. There were darkspawn to be fought, an archdemon to defeat, the Blight to vanquish. Insurmountable odds for all of it. They'd already fought and won so many impossible battles. More than likely, they would meet their fates on the battlefield, together, but hopefully not before they cut down the corrupted Old God.

That would be the ultimate irony, wouldn't it. All of this effort to put him on the throne and he might not even live to see his coronation.

Alistair lay down and draped an arm over Bryn's midsection, pulling her against him. She murmured in her sleep and rolled over, nuzzling her nose into his chest. He hugged her close and closed his eyes, drawing the scent of her--sweet soap and leather and woman--deep into his lungs.

The future wasn't certain. If nothing else, this past year had taught him that. From templar initiate to Grey Warden to King, in less than eighteen months. From being utterly alone to having a surrogate family to being betrothed….

No one knew what the next month would bring. Or the next hour. All one could do was try to recognize the perfect moments for what they were, and cherish them while they lasted.

Alistair sighed and let sleep take him, for the first time at peace with the world and his place in it.


End file.
